


Life Imitating Art

by bluesilksilverspurs



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28904976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesilksilverspurs/pseuds/bluesilksilverspurs
Summary: You meet a well-dressed man by the river one night, and what was a simple chance encounter becomes something of a surreal lesson on art and desire.
Relationships: The Strange Man/Reader
Kudos: 7





	Life Imitating Art

"Can you… can you feel things? Physically, I mean…" your voice trailed away, unsure, a blush of rose covering your cheeks. He smiled indulgently at you.  
"If I choose to, yes. But…" he stood, and walked nearer to you. You flinched. There was something about him that frightened you - of course there was - but it surged alongside the same dark and awful lust that had made you come back to this cabin. He didn't miss the involuntary movement, but he didn't seem at all to mind. "I have a special talent for feeling other's feelings. Fear, of course," his eyes flickered across your face, again without judgement, "Sometimes anger, or relief, even. But I've never felt… this." He reached one pale hand out slowly and lightly traced a curve on your chest, right above the frantic hammer of your heartbeat.  
You felt your cheeks burn, horrified at the realisation he might know what you were only starting to realise yourself. The tightness low in your belly twisted, a desire you had never felt before either. It seemed unnatural to feel such a thing towards someone… well, unnatural.  
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come." You said, but you left the words hanging in the air, wanting him to say something, add something.  
Tell you he was glad you had.  
He smiled at you, his fine moustache lifting at the corners. He really was a handsome man, even disregarding the current that seemed to distort the light and energy around him. You remember seeing his profile for the first time, the way your breath caught in your throat when you had called to him from the banks of the river. You had gone to him without hesitation, barely questioning what a man in a fine three-piece suit and immaculate top-hat was doing in the middle of nowhere, with no horse, no gun, nothing. You had wanted to see if he was okay – he had seemed surprised to see you.  
"Please, don’t apologise.” He cocked his head, his eyebrows knitting together in thought. "Y/n, would you like to sit for me?"  
You lifted your eyes to meet his, finding them warm and solicitous. "Sit for you? For a painting?" The cabin was full of them, some landscapes, some animals. The style was unusual, but attractive – the brushstrokes and colour palette drawing the eye, the paintings themselves seeming evocative not necessarily of their subjects but of an intangible feeling instead. Something abstract, solidified. Symbolism, perhaps. He nodded, tilting his head, waiting for an answer.  
You smiled, confused but happy enough. You would have done almost anything he asked if it meant he would stay with you, allow you to share in his odd company. After that night on the riverbank, where he had perplexed you with his disconcerting knowledge of you and his evasive answers, you’d went through each day with the hope – vague at first, before beginning to burn – that you would see him again. And you thought you had – from the corner of your eye, in a crowd, in your mirror, even in your dreams – but you never saw him again in the flesh.  
Not until the night you had ridden from St Denis to Rhodes, spurring your horse quicker and quicker through the dark bayou. You were afraid of the night, of the things that moved within it, especially in the swamp – the rumours of the Night Folk were enough to make even the hardiest traveller pause. And so you had been cantering along, your hands gripping the reins tightly, your eyes darting from side to side through the dense foliage, when a sudden sense of being observed washed over you. It didn’t frighten you. On the contrary, there was a flood of relief, a feeling of safety… and you would have been lying if you said that your heart didn’t leap at the sight of the strange man leaning against the bridge in front of you, his serene gaze picking your pale face out in the shadowy night.  
“My dear Y/n. We really ought to stop meeting like this.” He had said, and you had laughed – you winced inwardly at how nervous you sounded, how relieved, but brought the horse to a stop not far from him.  
“You shouldn’t hang around near the swamp. There are awful things out here in the dark.” You had told him, and you remembered the gleam of his smile, bright and amused, when you had said this.  
“Perhaps you are right… but then, why on earth are you out here at this time of night?” He had studied your face, that same amused expression making his handsome countenance almost bewitching. He was still wearing the smart suit that he had worn the first time you met him, and in the darkness of the night it made his skin seem almost translucent.  
“I had business in St. Denis. I didn’t think it could wait till tomorrow but now I am rather wishing I had just left it till then.” You had cast a worried look around you, at the dark vegetation. It was odd that you couldn’t hear any sounds now, whereas before every creak and rustle, chirrup and growl had seemed cacophonous in your head, spiking your pulse. It was quiet. Peaceful.  
“You still have a long ride ahead of you. I have a cabin, just through the trees there,” he gestured with his hand, and as you had looked you could see faint but unmistakeable glimmers of light amidst the dark. “If you like, you are welcome to stay till daybreak. The roads will be safer then.”  
When you replayed this conversation in your head, you still marvelled at the ease with which you accepted his offer. How you had allowed him to take the reins of your horse and calmly lead it in the dark through the thick plants and muck, barely making a sound at all. How you had let him help you down, gripping his hands as though you were afraid he might actually disappear.  
You remember the way you felt when he closed the door behind him, when you were alone with this strange man – a man who, despite every sign telling you to run and forget you had ever seen him, invoked a sense of calm in you, a quiet hush over the normal turbulence of your thoughts. It was a strange sensation indeed.  
You remember wanting to kiss him so badly the need made you feel ill.   
And you remember talking with him, allowing him to pull confessions from you like a magician with a string of silk scarves, confiding some of the secrets you’d held so close to you for so long that you felt oddly naked without them. He had sat with his legs crossed, leaning back on the chair that he’d pulled over to beside the couch you half-reclined on – when did you take your shoes off? – and you remember looking at his slim ankle in its pale grey sock, his smart black shoes that still shone immaculately despite the fact he’d walked back to this cabin through the swamp leading you on the horse. You made to mention this fact to him, but he had smiled and skirted away from the question.  
In time, in the dim glow of the little red lamp on the side table, beneath the flicker and dance of the candles and shadow, you felt your eyes growing heavy, and had rested your head against the arm of the couch. You recalled the gentle stroke of his fingers in your hair, the soporific hush of his voice, the quiet intimacy of his tone…  
When you had woken up to find the cabin empty and sunlight streaming through the thin curtains, you’d felt wounded, unhappy, as though you had squandered some precious opportunity. It had seemed prurient to linger, and though the cabin was empty you had the distinct feeling that you weren’t exactly alone. The thought of leaving your hairpin on the table as an excuse to return flashed through your mind, but you dismissed it, annoyed with yourself on more than one count. You had felt you were being stupid, foolish – you didn’t know this man at all, and yet he had been the sole focus of most of your waking thoughts and desires since you had first stumbled across him. You had fallen asleep in a cabin in the middle of the woods with him, with nary a thought for any danger you might have been exposing yourself to. You had acted like a stupid lovesick girl…. and yet as you berated yourself, it occurred to you that you were really only hardening yourself against a rising, aching need - the longing to be really seen that you had been suppressing for so, so long.  
And so here, now, back in this room with this man, you felt it rise again, break against the defences you’d built up carefully with brick upon brick of broken promises and hurt and betrayal. You wanted to be seen, for someone to know you – the actual you, not the varnished one that you contorted to fit expectation, a character for each role.  
“Do you want to start now or…” you began uncertainly, your tongue darting out to wet your dry lips. Was it very hot in the cabin?  
The strange man moved some cushions from the couch and adjusted the thin curtains a little. The light was warm and mellow – the day was slipping towards evening.  
“Here, sit on the couch there, my dear.” He took your hand and drew you towards him, guiding you down onto the couch. You sat stiffly, unsure of what to do, what he wanted from you. He must have picked up on your unease, because he chuckled. “You don’t have to be frightened. Relax for me, that’s it…” You took a few deep breaths, dropping your shoulders.  
“I’ve never sat for anyone before.” You confessed, glancing sideways at him. You fiddled nervously with the edge of your shawl, your eyes darting from your hands to his knee, which was close enough to yours that if you shifted a little you would touch him.  
“And I have never had someone sit for me before. Now… let me see. Yes, I know how I would like you…” He moved his hand to your shoulder and then paused, looking for permission before he touched you. “May I?”  
You nodded and allowed him to adjust the way your shawl sat, uncovering a little more of the slope of your neck, your shoulders. When he gently turned your face towards him, his fingers soft and cool against your skin, it was difficult to resist the urge to press your cheek into his touch. How long had it been since you had been touched like this? So tenderly? Thinking on it, you weren’t sure if you ever had been. You drank his attention greedily, as though you’d been thirsting for it. You had been, in a way.  
He finished arranging you into the pose he wanted, standing back and nodding, satisfied. “Beautiful. Beautiful.” He had sat you facing him, your face tilted just so, your body turned to him. He had even delicately brushed your curls back behind your ear, arranging them in a frame about your shoulders, and the stroke of his fingers through your hair had made you shiver with pleasure, and then apologise profusely, much to his amusement.  
When he had arranged the easel and the paints on the table beside him, he set to work. Each time his eyes flickered to you, you tried to hide that you were studying him just as intently.  
“I’d like to get the first stage done today – I will block out the colours first, then perhaps I will do a few sketches to use as references to work from.” He was speaking softly, mostly to himself, his hand moving the paintbrush from the palette to the empty canvas, carrying daubs of pink and white and yellow.  
You sat quietly as he worked, your eyes taking in the little details of the cabin. The pictures, the flowers, the rose-coloured lamp and busily patterned rugs, the fine bronze magnifying glass on the table beside the paints. You wanted to commit everything about this to memory. It seemed something precious, this time with this man, and like everything precious, you knew it wouldn’t last forever. You allowed him to work uninterrupted, your body humming each time he studied you before turning back to the easel.  
Eventually, he placed the paintbrush down and sat back, appraising both the canvas and his subject.  
“I think that should be enough for today. You’ve done marvellously.”  
“I’ve done nothing at all.” You laughed.  
“You are very modest.” He was tidying the brushes away, capping the pot of water. You didn’t quite know what to do with yourself, and so you moved across the room to the right hand side. There was a stuffed crow there, its glossy feathers frozen in perpetual roost. It had caught your eye when you had first visited, on the night you had met him on the bridge, but it seemed different in the day time. Something almost imperceptibly different, but jarring. You reached a finger out to touch the hard gleam of its beak.  
It shrieked at you.  
You screamed, stepping backwards into the strange man’s arms before turning round to bury your face in his neck as the crow thrashed and flapped about the little cabin, the noise of its wings seeming blasphemous as they broke the hush of the afternoon.  
“It’s alright.” He soothed, stroking your back. You could hear mirth in his voice, and cautiously you peeked over his shoulder. The crow was perched on the edge of the couch now, its head cocked, watching you with one obsidian eye. The man walked over to the door, threw it open and the crow gave a long caw – in thanks? – before fluttering out, a dark shadow disappearing into the brightness of the afternoon.  
You waited for him to close the door and turn, your face still flushed with fright.  
“I didn’t think it was alive.” You said thickly, mortified. The man gathered you back against him, squeezing you in a tight hug. You let him envelope you in his arms, inhaling the clean scent of his suit and that curious note you couldn’t place.  
“I forget that this place can be a little unusual.” He said, holding you out at arms lengths, studying your face. The attention made you flush crimson. His eyes were dark, the same depthless ink-black as the crow’s glossy feathers. “Do you know what people call a group of crows?”  
You racked your brain. Some answers to similar questions rose easily enough – a charm of goldfinches, a parliament of magpies – but crows? You shook your head.  
“A murder. A murder of crows. I find that curious.” He leaned on the counter where the crow had perched, his hand briefly touching the base of the stand. “Crows are clever birds, imbued with all sorts of superstitious meaning. Corvids – the family of birds they belong to – are among the only creatures other than humans who can recognise themselves in a mirror. Which is all the more fascinating when you consider that most men recognise themselves in a mirror, but don’t see themselves at all.”  
“Be that as it may, I nearly fainted when it flew off the perch.” You joined him at the counter, shoulder to shoulder, gazing down at the collection of objects there. From a distance, the candleholders had looked like animal skulls of some kind, which had been disconcerting on its own merit, but on closer inspection they were unmistakably human.  
“These skulls – where did they come from?” You tried to keep the tremble from your voice, and partly succeeded.  
“People who owed me something at one time or another. They settled their debts, but once they didn't need these anymore, I thought, why waste them?”  
“It's a little morbid.” This struck you as quite the understatement, but you were never one to judge. Besides, somehow in this context skulls repurposed as vessels to support light made perfect sense. You blinked, trying to clear your head and concentrate on what he was saying.  
“Sometimes contrast is what you need. Have you ever heard of memento mori?”  
You shook your head, confusion clouding your thoughts, your gaze still on the empty sockets of the nearest browning skull and the rivers of wax that had trailed down into the grooves of its grimacing smile.  
“It is a Latin phrase, a philosophical idea. An artistic and symbolic reminder to people that they must die, that Death is an inevitability. It was very popular in the 17th Century – people would carry jewellery, mourning rings and the like, and they’d adorn their homes and public places with motifs of skulls, hourglasses. I rather liked the notion. Even I’m not immune to flattery.” He smiled, dipping his head. “The whole point of memento mori is to remind people that even in the midst of life, Death is never far. It was to encourage people not to forget.”  
“And do people normally forget?”  
“People don’t forget, so much as they repress.”  
You were silent for a moment. He was standing watching you, you could feel his eyes upon you, like a breath. Finally, you spoke life into the question that had followed you since you first met the man.  
“Are you Death?”  
He didn’t answer, merely smiled that infuriating, beguiling smile. Your thoughts stumbled, but you pressed on, trying to rein in what you needed to say.  
“Not the abstract notion of Death but, well I know you're not human, not in the traditional sense,” Here you exposed the inside of your wrists to him, showing the light blue veins tracing down them, as though that helped to explain your meaning, “I don’t know if you ever were a mortal man but… what are you? Who are you?"   
He continued to smile enigmatically at you, his fingers tracing a line on the tabletop, disturbing the fine dust. You could feel your pulse quicken, as though it was responding to a sudden pull.  
"You know, there doesn't have to be an answer to every question." he said silkily.  
"Sometimes there does."  
"And sometimes, my love, there simply isn't one."  
You frowned.  
"That's not an answer."  
You were annoyed when he grinned, but the irritation flared brightly then died away. You couldn’t be angry with him – he was a riddle you liked trying to solve, in a way. You shrugged your shoulders as nonchalantly as you could manage, and sat down on the couch, folding your hands demurely in your lap as you looked up at him.  
"You know, where I'm from this is the kind of conversation that might land you in an asylum." You laughed, amused by the sheer of absurdity of it all. "Though some nights I've begun to worry that I might be mad after all.”  
"Why is that?" He asked, sitting beside you, his body turned to mirror yours. He looked fascinated, but you thought perhaps you were merely hoping he was. Still, you’d never felt so attended to. You dropped your gaze to the back of your hands.  
"I worry that you're not real at all. That you're… I don't know, some confection I've dreamed up."  
"And I'm what you'd dream up? I'm flattered."  
"You know what I mean."  
"What does real mean to you?"  
You cocked your head, brows furrowed. "I guess…. Something is real if it's there, you know? Something you can touch, or see or smell."  
"So, something you can detect with your senses? Something physical?"  
"Yes."  
"And if you lost your sight, or all of your senses, would things cease to be?"  
You opened your mouth and closed it again, the thoughts whirring around in your head refusing to be pulled into coherence.  
"That's…. I don't mean that. But this - you - no-one talks about these kind of things. And the ones who do are -" A flash of understanding hit you, and you conceded with a small smile, "Well, maybe they're not so crazy after all."  
He caressed your knee very softly, his elegant fingers raising the hairs on your arms and the back of your neck. A warm, welcome feeling bloomed in your belly.  
"I think you'll find that a great deal more people have experiences beyond the realm of "normality" than you would think. But why court accusations of lunacy when no-one else admits to such things?"  
You nodded, chewing the inside of your cheek, but said nothing.  
"You don't seem convinced." He remarked, not unkindly.  
You shook your head. "No, it makes sense. Besides, I don't think I could manufacture this feeling."  
"And even if you could, what would it matter whether I was real or not? Who gets to decide what is real? If something, someone, touches you?"  
You noticed that he'd shifted position on the couch, leaning forward a little towards you, his hand still lightly stroking against your thigh. Your eyes flickered between his face and his lips - thin, pale but inviting.  
He followed your gaze, and before you could say anything else, pressed his mouth against yours in a soft kiss. His lips were dry, hesitant at first, and his moustache tickled your nose… He didn't move his mouth or open his lips, waiting against you. Waiting for permission to continue.  
Your body responded before you made the conscious decision, opening your lips to move against him. The kiss was unexpectedly sweet, soft. You both stayed like that for a moment, his hands travelling across your body as though trying to trace a route through a land he’d never heard of. When you felt the hot lap of his tongue in your mouth, you felt your own arousal between your thighs.

~~~

The sun was high above the trees when you urged your horse across the bridge spanning the Kamassa River. The day felt as thick as syrup, time moving sluggishly as you had waited for the afternoon to come.  
When you pulled your horse to a stop outside the cabin, you were thrilled to find him standing on the porch waiting.  
“What a pleasure to see you again, Miss Y/n.” He walked down the steps, helping you down from the horse before hitching it loosely to the railings of the house. You were glad he didn’t cinch the reins too tightly – it would be awful to say the least if an alligator came upon the horse and the poor thing couldn’t get away. Any further thoughts on this subject fled away beneath the soft touch of his hand on your arm as he guided you up the steps and into the cabin.  
Stepping inside, your eyes adjusting from the bright glare outside, you breathed in deeply. You couldn’t describe the scent, except to say that it unmistakeably belonged to him, but it stirred something in you that had begun to awaken more and more these days, and that prowled the corridors of your mind hungrily.  
You had so many questions for this man. So many things to ask and tell and confess and hear, and yet fear stilled your tongue. Not a fear of him, but a fear of losing him, of driving him away. You tried to keep the tone light.  
"How long have you been painting for?" You asked, folding your shawl against the edge of the couch. The easel was still set up at the end of the room, but the paints hadn’t been laid out yet.  
"Oh, a long time. Life can be so fleeting, so changeable. I think there is something soothing about fixing a part of it in place. An impression can never be the real thing, of course, but sometimes it is as close as you can get."  
You looked around the little cabin at the paintings arranged on the walls. Landscapes, animals, birds. There was something haunting about them, something ethereal. You gestured to them.  
"Is there a theme? To these pictures, I mean?"  
He looked at them, as though suddenly remembering they were there.  
"A little project of mine. You know, I've spent a lot of time pondering on people, about honour. What makes a man honourable? Can he change? Can he be both dishonourable and honourable at the same time?" He glanced back at you.  
"So what did you decide?"  
"That things aren't as dichotomous as we - as I'd - like them to be. Things are rarely black and white. Neither life nor death are so clean cut. Perhaps that's part of the beauty of it. What makes it so like art. The imperfect bits. The idiosyncrasies."  
“I think there are good and bad in most people’s souls. I think it would be nice to believe that there were good and bad parts to mine.” You frowned, and suddenly wished you hadn’t shared so much.  
"Do you think you're a bad person?" He asked, amused.  
You couldn't help but return his smile, warming to this man and his eccentric manners. "Well, I don't know…. Maybe? I wouldn't say I was a good person. I feel jealous sometimes, angry - spiteful even, I'm impatient and bad tempered at other times…" he raised his hand, and you stopped mid-sentence.  
"These things don't make you bad - they make you human. No one is above having these feelings - even if they deny them, or seldom act on them. There is no man or woman who doesn't feel them at times in their secret heart. It is natural. As you have said, there are good and bad in most people’s souls."  
You nodded. This made sense.  
"Perhaps I'm not completely irredeemable then." You conceded with a shrug of your shoulders, passing it off as a joke, but you watched him carefully. He probably knew you cared a great deal about what he thought - he knew so much else about you.  
"My love, very few people are entirely beyond redemption."  
"Well, that's a relief, I suppose. Though sometimes I feel guilty about…" you stopped, the words half-formed in your mouth, your eyes widening.  
"You feel guilty about…?" He urged, eyes glittering.  
"The things I think about. The way I think about you, specifically. About what I want to do."  
He raised his dark eyebrows and gave a sly smile.  
"I don't feel guilty about what I want to do to you."  
You froze, your shocked expression melting with the heat of the moment. The words that came out of your mouth surprised you.  
"Then do it."  
There was something carnal, animalistic, about the way he pulled you towards him, his lips crushing yours in a bruising kiss far removed from the first gentle one you'd shared. You wrapped your arms tightly round his neck as he pushed you back against the wall of the cabin, making the pictures in their gilt frames rattle. Without breaking the kiss, he swept his top hat off and tossed it over the edge of the mirror in the corner.  
“I want you.” He breathed, animating you with the urgency of his voice. Your hands pushed the fine suit jacket off his shoulders, desperate to feel his skin beneath your fingers. You wanted him, too – more than wanted him, really. You desired him in a way that shocked you. As he shucked off his jacket, loosening his tie, you slid your skirt and knickers down your legs and stepped out of them. The air felt cold on your hot skin, and when he sat you down on the couch, spreading your legs and kneeling between them, you shivered. His hands were as cool as the air, but you warmed beneath their touch.  
“How beautiful you are.” He murmured, his hand trailing slowly up your inner thigh. You tensed as he neared the apex of your legs, his fingers brushing the soft curls of hair there. For a moment he simply kissed you. “Open your legs for me, my dear.”  
You did as he asked. He was watching your face, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust, and when you arched your back as his fingers slipped into your wet slit, he smiled. “That’s it.” He hummed, making long strokes along your sensitive lips, delicately slicking his fingers with your arousal. He moved maddeningly slowly, circling your entrance and almost dipping inside before running his fingers north again. When he began to circle your hardened clit, you moaned against his mouth. The pressure was perfect, rubbing the tight bundle of nerves in ever-decreasing movements, nudging you closer and closer. Just as the sensations began to build and gather momentum, he removed his fingers and before you could beg him to continue, slid two of them into your aching cunt.  
The sensation felt foreign after such a long time on your own, his fingers stretching you as you nestled against him on the couch. He experimented to find out which movements made you gasp, curling them inside you as your walls clenched around them. Grinding your pelvis against the heel of his hand to stimulate your swollen nub, you found yourself begging him to take you.  
“Please, I need to feel you, properly.” You were tugging at his trousers, no longer caring if he was still half-dressed, not caring for anything at all except the storm of want and longing raging in your body. He withdrew his fingers, wet with your slick, and unbuttoned his dark trousers while you watched unashamedly. You weren’t entirely sure what you were expecting, but the pleasant clenching in your belly intensified when he removed his semi-erect cock and gave it a few tugs. How strange it was to see him like this, you thought, as you gently pushed his hand away from himself and tentatively lapped at his erection, your tongue flat beneath his swollen head. His hands were in your hair, gently holding you there as you worked his cock with your mouth, sucking him in the hollow of your cheek before flickering your tongue along the thin cord of skin on its underside. His hips jerked at this and you sighed around his cock, delirious and happy, your hand reaching up to gently knead his balls. From above you, you heard him moan, low and undone.  
“I need you.” He said this time, and you nodded. You felt as though the room had tilted off its axis, and the only thing you could see with any clarity was him. He used his right hand to position himself between your lips, sliding his cock between them and coating it with your juices. When he nudged your entrance with its head, you stiffened, looking to him for reassurance to find his expression soft, his eyes full of a strange tenderness. Your own eyes fluttered shut as he pushed inside you for the first time, sheathing himself in your tight warmth.  
It felt exquisite. _He_ felt exquisite. His thrusts were slow to start with, shallow, allowing you to adjust to the feeling of his cock buried within you. Each time he drove a little deeper, stretching you a little further as you lifted your ass to accommodate him, your hands scrabbling for purchase across his back as he fucked you.  
Tipping your head back, a half-sigh, half-sob escaped your lips along with a rush of high laughter. "I can't even moan your name because I don't know what it is." You gasped as he snapped his hips against you, leaning his forehead against yours as he brushed the part inside you that made your pussy clench hard around his length.  
"But you know me. And I know you." He panted, holding you against the couch within the cage of his arms. The feeling of his body framing yours, the way your pulse hammered beneath the coolness of his hands, it felt wonderful. Like being held captive by someone you'd give anything at all to.  
You bucked your hips up to meet his thrusts, the words "oh my god" slipping easily from your tongue, a hymn, a rosary… your mouth and body an offering to him. He growled low against your throat as he fucked you, a warning in his elegant voice.  
"Careful."  
You would worship at his feet, you knew that, and you sensed that he did too. As though answering your thought, he bit at your neck, drawing a sharp cry from your lips. "You shouldn't say such things if you don't mean them. You certainly shouldn't say them if you do."  
He was not rough with you, his movements precise and measured like everything else about him. Whenever a particular movement caused your body to soar, he would return to it and make small adjustments as though he were fine-tuning an instrument and making you sing for him. You were happy to, the feeling of his cock inside you making your eyes flutter shut as it nudged against the perfect spot. When you looked to his face again you were surprised to see that his eyes were shut, the dark lashes stark against the paleness of his cheek, his brows furrowed in concentration. You had expected the enigmatic smile he so often wore – it was strange to see him look so very human.  
Without thinking, you pressed your lips against his, bringing the two of your bodies together. He kissed back, hungrily, his hands moving to encircle your wrists. He pinned you against the couch as he rutted into you, and the feelings began to run together, burning till you weren’t sure where they were originating and you had forgotten how to breathe smoothly. The tightness at your core bordered on pain.  
“Come for me, then.” He murmured.  
You reached your climax in one shaky jump, and each nerve in your body seemed to alight, the muscles in your thighs and stomach trembling - it felt as though every emotion you'd ever experienced had hit you together, flickers and fragments of photographic memories flashing behind your eyes as a pleasure unlike anything you'd felt before made you sob. You could feel his hands, grounding, cool, beneath the fevered skin of your back now, the press of his kiss against your throat. You clung to him, burning out.  
And then, like a light snapping off, everything went dark.

~~~

When you came to, the light had returned, the flicker of the candles. You touched the fabric beneath your chin - his suit jacket, that he'd tucked over the top of you. The man himself was sitting beside you on the low couch, his arm wrapped around your shoulders. Your head was resting against his chest. You felt tired, as though it had been a very long time since you last slept.  
"Are you alright?" He whispered against the top of your head.  
"Yes. I think so, anyway." You didn't want him to move away from you, to disentangle himself. It felt nice to be cradled like this, to be cared for.  
"You're shaking."  
He was right; your whole body was shivering, goosebumps prickling across your skin. You didn't feel cold, exactly. It felt like the absence of warmth, which didn't appear to be the same thing. Holding one hand up in front of yourself, you watched your fingers tremble as though caught in a breeze.  
“Oh… that’s new.” You shifted slightly against him, feeling a little dazed still, and tipped your head up so you could look at his face. “This doesn’t normally happen to me. This.” You wiggled your fingers before letting your hand drop gently against his thigh. “I don’t tend to black out, either.”  
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He said after a moment, and when you searched his gaze you found something sad beneath his normally enigmatic expression. Your heart tightened.  
“You didn’t hurt me. I’ve never felt anything like that. If I hadn’t believed in the sublime before, it would be hard to refute it now.” Your smile wrinkled the corners of your eyes. He seemed mollified by this, reassured, and he held you tight against his body. He pressed a kiss on to the top of your head, and you breathed out, content.

~~~

You awoke in your own bed, confused and disorientated. There were bells pealing outside, pale lemon light flooding the room through your curtains. You sat up and felt sick as a sharp pain pierced your head. It must be Sunday, judging by the clamour of the church bells. But that couldn’t be right. You had gone to the cabin on the Friday afternoon.  
Tentatively, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed. You still felt cold, and the tiredness you’d felt after the first night you’d met the man had returned. It felt like an ache, deep down in the shadows of your bones. You walked to the window and settled on the bench beneath it, resting your head on the sun-warmed wood. It was too early to start processing what you knew you had to, so you decided to let the glow of the memory and the touch of the sun warm you for a while before you did.

~~~

He came to you that night. You had spent the day moving slowly around the house, as though you had woken up from a dream and were trying to put the pieces back together. Ordinary objects seemed out of place, out of kilter.  
You had been thinking, and hurting.  
Around ten o’clock, you’d settled in the soft chair by the fire, still trying to coax some warmth into your body. You sensed that he was there before you saw him, a thickening of the shadows. He looked as handsome as ever.  
 _The Reaper in his Sunday best._  
The thought made you smile, and made your heart ache.  
“Hello, my dear.” He joined you beside the fire, settling in the chair beside yours. He looked solemn, turning his head to face you, his dark eyes darker still beneath his hat. You slid your hand into his on the arm of his chair, and squeezed his fingers. You sat in silence for a few moments, simply watching the fire and the smoke curl from it.  
"You know that I can't take from you what you might have been willing to give to me" he said eventually, sadness in his eyes. "I’ve been selfish, to have allowed you to come to me in the first place, and to have kept coming back to you afterwards. But I wanted to. This is the most alive I've felt for as long as I can remember."  
You could feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, your throat tight. You had decided that you had to stop doing this, that it would be the literal death of you, but now, sitting beside him, your body burned at the thought of never seeing him again. "But shouldn't that be my choice? My decision to make, and responsibility to bear? Isn't that what you've been saying all along?" You felt strangely angry, but it was easier to feel that than the deep sadness and fear that suddenly seized at you.  
He looked at you, leaning in to frame your face with his pale fingers, studying you. "Yes… but these aren't normal circumstances. This isn't natural. And it isn't fair to you." He caught the tear that spilled over your lashes with the tip of his thumb, brushing it away. "Don’t cry, my love."  
You tried not to, but when you closed your eyes the drops still ran down your cheeks. You didn’t want to open them, to break the spell, but you had to.  
"I won’t see you again, will I?”  
"No, I won't come back to you, not like this," You pressed your hand over your mouth, trapping the hiccup of tears, and he removed it gently, holding it, his thumb rubbing your skin tenderly. “But I'll never be far away. Such is the nature of my work, I suppose. And I'll see you again one day, of course, though that day is still a while away. I hope you'll forgive me for all of this." He asked, his eyebrows raised, his face vulnerable in a way you hadn't seen before. He looked more human than he ever had.  
"There's nothing to forgive." You said, and you meant it.  
"I left you something in the parlour, just a little token to remember me by". He said as he rose and turned to leave. You smiled.  
"As though I could ever forget you."  
"You would be surprised."  
"I suppose this is goodbye then?"  
He smiled, straightening his suit jacket.  
"Only for now. Not forever."


End file.
